


But a Man

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Magi: Adventure of Sinbad (Anime)
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-07 12:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20976038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Sinbad stands outside the front entrance for a moment, gazing at the company flourishing in front of him and feeling every breath he takes fill his blood with tingling anticipation; and then he draws a breath, and lifts his chin, and steps forward to pass through the doorway and return to his old life." Sinbad returns after the attack on Sindria and finds Ja'far waiting for him.





	1. Public

Sinbad’s been gone a long time.

He has felt it in the marrow of his bones, the passage of each day aching like magnetism trying to urge him back home, to the city that he has claimed for himself and the people who have dedicated the paths of their lives to him. His distance from them is like a wound that refuses to heal, that no longer even makes an attempt to scar but instead throbs in time with his heartbeat, a constant reminder of where he should be, of the place to which he must return. It’s the greatest punishment he has ever inflicted on himself, he thinks, to stay apart from that place he most wants to be; and the most essential choice he has ever made, to isolate himself while he reclaims self-control. He can’t lead a company, can’t accept the loyalty of others, can’t be king of a nation, so long as he struggles to exert his will over his own existence; so he left everything and everyone behind him, leaving them to the capable hands of his followers while he left to rediscover himself.

He has succeeded in that goal. It seemed impossible, at times, sometimes for long days together; but Sinbad has never been the kind to balk at the impossible, and in the end the challenge of overcoming his own barriers became as much an adventure as those far-flung expeditions he led with a handful of followers at his back. He will not be making a story of this one, he thinks -- however certain he may be in his own self, he doesn’t savor the idea of laying his struggle bare for the world -- but it is an adventure all the same, one he will hold secure in himself over all the years to come. Sinbad fixes his grip on his psyche, centering himself in the person he has always been, that sometimes slides free before he reaches out to seize it back for his keeping, and with his identity newly secured he can finally turn his gaze and his steps towards home.

It is good to be back in a city. Sinbad’s travels have led him to all corners of the world, have allowed him to experience life in any number of ways; but it is people that always hold the greatest part of his interest, and the cities that hold them the places where he feels most alive. He walks through the streets with Yamraiha at his side, breathing the sights and smells with every step forward they take, and the sense of himself that he spent so long reclaiming settles deeper into him with every movement he takes closer to where he has been bound all this time, however long the path to bring him here lasted.

The company headquarters is as busy as the rest of Balbadd, if showing more signs of enforced order than the merchants in the city square or the ship captains haggling over the best locations in the wide harbor. It is a smaller space here than it used to be, with lower roofs and fewer windows, but there is a steady stream of people coming in and out of the front doors, holding packages or reading documents or engaged in conversations so intent they spare barely a glance for the arrival of a strange man escorted by a young witch. Sinbad stands outside the front entrance for a moment, gazing at the company flourishing in front of him and feeling every breath he takes fill his blood with tingling anticipation; and then he draws a breath, and lifts his chin, and steps forward to pass through the doorway and return to his old life.

It is just as busy inside. For the first moment no one looks up to see Sinbad and Yamraiha; they are occupied with their own pursuits, deep in conversation or calculation. Sinbad’s gaze flickers over the crowd inside, noting the familiar faces of acquaintances and the addition of strangers alike, gauging the expansion of even this core group over the time he has been gone; and then a figure rounds the top of a flight of short stairs to descend them with effortless grace, and Sinbad’s attention swings back as if in answer to his name.

Ja’far looks just as he did when Sinbad left. The company has expanded, the headquarters grown, the lives around them have been rebuilt the stronger for their setbacks; but Ja’far is the same now as ever, still as entirely and absolutely himself as Sinbad has ever known him. He still stands shorter than everyone else in the room, and still carries himself with twice as much self-assurance as those taller and broader than he; there is still a self-contained composure to him, from the set of his feet to the shift of his hands to the tilt of his chin. Ja’far comes down the stairs towards the front door, his head ducked down so he can frown at the stack of documents he is holding before him, and it is just as his foot touches the floor before him that the first gasp of recognition is heard as someone in the crowd looks up to see Sinbad in the middle of the room.

It’s astonishing how quickly silence falls. The room was alive with chatter and discussion and negotiation as Sinbad stepped through the door; in the span of hardly a breath every person within has dropped the thread of their conversation in favor of turning to gape at the newcomers. Sinbad can feel the weight of eyes on him, the breathless focus of followers that has been so absent from his life settling itself back around his shoulders like a cloak draping him in the regalia of a king; but he doesn’t look around to take stock of the room, because in front of him Ja’far has lifted his head to stare straight into Sinbad’s face.

There is no hesitation of recognition, no startled blink as Ja’far’s memory rediscovers Sinbad from his recollection of the past. Ja’far’s reaction is instant, printed clear in the widening of his eyes and the draining of all the color from beneath his already-pale skin. For a minute Sinbad wonders if his arrival might manage to do what near-mortal wounds failed to, and crumple the support of Ja’far’s legs out from under him; but Ja’far keeps to his feet, at least, even as the pattern of freckles across his cheeks stands out in stark silhouette against his face. His arm drops to his side, carried downward by the weight of the documents he is still holding but has clearly forgotten, and for a breath he stands still in the middle of the room, staring at Sinbad with such a blank expression on his face that Sinbad can’t tell if anger or affection will follow on the heels of the surprise that has wiped every thought from behind Ja’far’s eyes. The silence forms around them, the ripples of conversation expanding and fading to perfect peace, until when Ja’far’s throat works the word is perfectly clear, even though it’s barely loud enough to be a whisper. “Sin.”

Sinbad looks at Ja’far in front of him, standing in the middle of the company he has kept running in Sinbad’s absence, surrounded by the people he has cared for and looked after during all the time Sinbad spent away. The fragments of a ruined nation have been gathered together here, remade and mended into a bustling company again, into a foundation the stronger for the cracks it has suffered, and Sinbad has no doubt in his mind who deserves the greater part of his thanks for that. He’s not even surprised, not when he knows Ja’far as perfectly as he has ever known himself, not when he has held the shape and form of the other’s soul between his hands; but he takes a moment all the same, to savor the comfort of the moment, of his people around him and the success of his friends and Ja’far, face white and lips trembling and more real than any of Sinbad’s carefully-held memories could ever make him. Sinbad takes a breath, drawing the space, the moment, the reunion deep into his chest; and then he lets it go, and lets his mouth curve onto a smile at Ja’far in front of him.

“I’m home, Ja’far.”

The room erupts into sound, the silence cracking as if Sinbad’s words were the blow to shatter it; but Sinbad is still watching Ja’far, and Sinbad sees the flush of color that rises to the other’s cheeks, and the tension that creases between his brows as his wide eyes go liquid with sudden tears. He only has a moment to see; then Ja’far ducks his head forward and lifts one of his long sleeves towards his face as if he means to hide this surrender to emotion from view. The gesture covers his expression, at least, but it doesn’t disguise the too-tight grip he has on the stack of papers at his side, and the weight of his sleeves fails to sufficiently hide the motion that is quaking through his shoulders. Sinbad huffs a breath of amusement that is swallowed up entirely by the roar of the crowd welcoming him back, and as the people begin to collect themselves to descend upon him he takes a step forward and reaches out to catch his arm around Ja’far’s shaking shoulders.

Sinbad takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the air in his chest where Ja’far is pressing against him, before he sighs an exhale and ducks his head. “It’s good to be back,” he says, speaking softly against the top of Ja’far’s head. Ja’far doesn’t look up and doesn’t make any attempt to speak that Sinbad can hear, but his free hand comes up, his fingers brushing against Sinbad’s shirt before they tighten to a fist. It’s only a moment that they stand like that, with Sinbad steadying Ja’far’s shoulders and Ja’far’s grip squeezing hard against Sinbad’s clothes; then Sinbad hears Ja’far drag a ragged breath into his lungs, and as he shifts back onto his heels they both let go at once. When Ja’far lifts his chin to meet Sinbad’s gaze his jaw is set against the emotion damp at his lashes, and he brings the documents in his hold up in front of him to brace with both hands as if he’s armoring himself against the force of his own reaction. The cue for formality is clear, however shaky Ja’far’s mouth still looks, and Sinbad surrenders to it by straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin into the regal composure that he has been so many months without.

“Ja’far,” he says, speaking loudly so his voice will carry over the cacophony around them and demand the attention of everyone else. “Thank you for bringing everyone together while I was away.” He turns his head to consider the room so when he goes on speaking his words are a command to the crowd and not just Ja’far. “I have something to tell everyone here. Please gather together.” Ja’far ducks his head into the appearance of obedience, and then turns to fit actions to gesture, and Sinbad lets him go without saying anything further. He has returned at last, to his position as much as to his people, and he owes them a future before he can take the time for more personal indulgence. Ja’far knows that, perhaps better even than Sinbad himself; and whatever else Sinbad has decided to do on his return, he’s confident in his ability to seek out a more private reunion after his public announcement is done. Sinbad watches Ja’far navigate his way through the crowd, shouting orders to bring the chaos into some measure of order in a voice that steadies as he makes use of it, and then he smiles, and steps forward to reclaim his kingdom.


	2. Private

It’s much, much later that Sinbad has the chance to find Ja’far again.

They’re together for the greater part of the day after his return. Ja’far has been running the company all but single-handedly in Sinbad’s absence, and what Sinbad sees as visions Ja’far has the knowledge to create from the raw materials of the people and resources they have available. Sinbad’s plans are monumental in scope, unhindered by his recent absence or the grand failure of his latest attempt, and for several hours there is no time for anything but defining strategy and working through the most immediate, pressing problems Ja’far condenses from the glowing possibilities of Sinbad’s ambitions. They develop solutions together, the pair of them and the rest of Sinbad’s core group, reunited now as much as they will ever be after the losses they sustained in Sindria, and for a long span of time Sinbad is too occupied by their present undertaking to spare a thought for what will come after. That comes later, after Hinahoho is yawning and Sharrkan has fallen asleep against Masrur’s unshifting shoulder, and Sinbad finally declares planning to be done for the day. The rest of the group rises to their feet, yawning or stretching and groaning with the anticipation of their waiting beds, and when Sinbad looks at him Ja’far is watching, his eyes dark with the shared understanding that formed itself in the first moment of Sinbad’s arms closing around his shoulders.

It still takes time, of course. Ja’far looks away almost as soon as he meets Sinbad’s gaze, turning himself to gathering together the notes he made throughout the conversation into a measure of order that will allow for easy reference when they resume the next day. Sinbad doesn’t protest this delay aloud; he just stays where he is, seated at the far end of the table and watching Ja’far collect the details of work carefully together before setting them aside for the night. Sinbad wonders if Ja’far will fuss unnecessarily, if he will linger over the organization more than is strictly needed, but Ja’far has no more desire to delay than Sinbad, it seems, because in the end it is a very few minutes before he is dropping the stack of papers to the edge of the table and pushing back to get to his feet.

He doesn’t say anything by way of invitation and Sinbad doesn’t wait for it. This is his company, after all, however long he was necessarily absent, and Ja’far doesn’t offer any protest to Sinbad rising to his feet to follow him silently out of the room and down the hallway. The company is quiet, the bustle of the day silenced by the advent of night sweeping across the sky; all Sinbad can hear is the sound of his own footsteps against the smooth floor of the hall, his tread sounding far more clearly than the almost silent shift of Ja’far’s assassin-trained motion. Ja’far leads them down the hall to a door at the far end from the short staircase, which he opens with a key produced from one of the pockets of his overrobe, and when he pushes the door open Sinbad reaches up to hold it open for the other before he follows Ja’far inside.

It’s a small room. It looks like it was likely an office, originally, before too-regular overnight use by the occupant demanded the need for a bed to be set up along one wall, and Sinbad suspects that sees far less use than the desk stacked with documents and sheets of calculations in the middle of the room. But Sinbad isn’t looking for space, or comfort, or even for a bed: all he needs is Ja’far, and a door to close on the demands of the rest of the world, and an hour to indulge in his own purposes.

Ja’far steps into the middle of the room, pausing in the center of what clear space there is between the desk and the bed. Sinbad reaches behind himself to push the door shut against its frame; it moves easily, but the room is so silent that the soft  _ thud _ of the weight landing into place is clearly audible as it hums through the walls and against the floor under their feet. Sinbad is watching Ja’far, and Ja’far doesn’t so much as flinch against the sound of the door closing behind them, but there is a set to his shoulders that speaks to the effort his stillness costs him. Sinbad wonders what expression is on the other’s face, wonders if Ja’far would turn to show him if he commanded it, and because he knows the answer he doesn’t push for dominance. He stays where he is instead, just past the closed door to Ja’far’s room and gazing at the other’s back; and then he takes a step forward to cross over what distance yet remains between them.

Ja’far is tense as Sinbad touches him, his shoulders locked into rigidity that doesn’t so much as tremble under the gentle weight of Sinbad’s hands lowering against them. Sinbad can feel the burden of all his time away against the other’s body, can feel the necessary determination that has allowed Ja’far to keep the company so successful even with the founder’s complete absence, and for a moment Sinbad shuts his eyes to feel the full impact of that, to read the cost of the last months from the strain of knotted muscle resisting even the comfort of his touch returned at last. Then he draws a breath, and opens his eyes, and lets his hands slide up along the line of Ja’far’s shoulders, relearning the familiar shape of the other’s body as he finds his way to the weight of Ja’far’s keffiyeh and the band holding it close against his head.

Ja’far doesn’t protest as Sinbad’s touch trails the side of his neck, as the other’s fingers push up to urge the weight free of his head. He holds perfectly still, facing the far wall and standing upright with rigid attention as Sinbad slides the keffiyeh free and tosses it aside to land at the sheets of the bed alongside them. With the covering gone Sinbad can see the pale color of Ja’far’s soft hair, can see the locks brushing at the back of his neck where an inch of skin is left bare between his hairline and the high collar of his shirt. Sinbad draws a hand along the side of Ja’far’s neck, lingering over the texture of the other’s skin as he returns his hold to Ja’far’s shoulder, before he ducks his head down so he can touch his lips gently against that strip of pale skin. Ja’far doesn’t say anything to that either, doesn’t make so much as a sound of acknowledgment, but as close as he is Sinbad can feel his head tip forward, can feel the inherent surrender in the forward dip of Ja’far’s chin, and he stays as he is, kissing warmth against the back of Ja’far’s neck as he reaches around without looking to strip back the weight of the overrobe from where it is drawn around the other’s shoulders.

Ja’far submits to Sinbad’s touch without hesitation. He lets his arms fall to his sides as Sinbad pulls the overrobe off his shoulders and free of his hands before casting it to join the keffiyeh at the bed. When Sinbad steps in so he can set a foot alongside Ja’far’s and breathe against the tangle of the other’s hair while he reaches around for the buttons down the front of Ja’far’s shirt Ja’far leans back against him, letting the angle of his balance speak to the obedience that he has always offered Sinbad without hesitation. Sinbad pulls Ja’far’s shirt over his head, freeing the freckled pale of the other’s skin for the light and his gaze at once, and when that is pushed aside too Sinbad touches a hand to Ja’far’s shoulder, and steps around the wall of Ja’far’s turned back to face the other.

Ja’far is still standing just as he was, feet braced and hands at his sides and shoulders tense with whatever thoughts are ever racing through his head. He looks smaller, now, without the layers of command that are granted by the formality of his usual clothing. His shorter height is unmistakable like this, the slender build of his frame and the narrow span of his shoulders obvious stripped of the disguise of shirt and overrobe and keffiyeh to hide them; but when he lifts his chin he meets Sinbad’s gaze as directly as ever, without any of the hesitation or self-consciousness that one might expect. His mouth is set, his eyes dark and unflinching as he looks up to gaze at the man standing over him, and like this Sinbad can see the steel core to him, stripped of the trappings of politics and the politeness of negotiation to leave just the bared-edge blade of the assassin that Ja’far always is underneath, no matter how well-sheathed he keeps that razor’s point. Sinbad looks down at Ja’far gazing up at him, feeling himself seen, understood,  _ known_; and then he lifts his own head, and he draws his foot back so he can drop to a knee against the floor of Ja’far’s room.

Sinbad can hear the hiss of Ja’far’s inhale as he moves to kneel, the proof of a shock enough to strike past the armor of expectation and understanding that the other builds around himself as securely as he wraps himself in the protection of his title and position and formal clothing. The pleasure of surprising him is enough to quirk Sinbad’s mouth on a smile, but he doesn’t offer anything into the silence. He takes his time in settling himself instead, bracing his knees against the floor and shifting to find some measure of comfort, before he lifts his head to toss his hair back from his face and reaches up to fit his hands to the shape of Ja’far’s narrow hips.

Sinbad can’t hear the sound of Ja’far’s inhale, this time. But Ja’far’s hand lifts from his side, his fingers stretching out over the space between them, and when they brush against Sinbad’s hair Sinbad can feel the tremor of uncertainty in the motion, in how delicately Ja’far’s touch skims against his head. Sinbad tips his head to the side to press closer, to ease away the hesitation in Ja’far’s touch with the certain action of his own motion, and as Ja’far’s fingers slide farther into his hair he presses his thumbs down to follow the line of Ja’far’s hips to the edge of his waistband and beneath, to follow the heat of bare skin trailing down beneath the cover of his clothes. His palms slide across the other’s skin, smoothing just over the line of restraint provided by the waistband of Ja’far’s pants, and when Sinbad’s hands meet in the middle he draws his thumbs free so he can make quick work of the fastenings holding the last of Ja’far’s clothes on.

Ja’far doesn’t speak as Sinbad finishes undressing him. He’s still on his feet, standing rigidly upright in the middle of his floor in front of Sinbad on his knees, but he doesn’t back away towards the bed or move to urge Sinbad back to standing. He just stays still, his feet braced and hand steady where it’s landed at Sinbad’s hair, and he doesn’t shift even as Sinbad draws his pants open and urges the fabric away from his hips.

Ja’far is very pale here, without even the freckling that the sun has brought out across his cheeks and over his shoulders; over the angle of his hips his skin looks almost blue with the tracery of veins pressing close under the surface. His cock is only just beginning to rise in answer to the suggestion of Sinbad’s position and the obviousness of his intent; Sinbad could lean in if he wanted, could touch his lips to the flat of Ja’far’s stomach or just against the inside tension of his thigh until he coaxed the other’s breathing to ragged heat, until the fingers in his hair were clenching to fists of desperation. But it’s been months, the time dragging for Sinbad as well as for Ja’far, and at the moment patience is something Sinbad has in exceedingly short supply. So instead he leaves Ja’far’s clothes to fall loose around his thighs, and lifts his hands to catch the edge of Ja’far’s hips in the cup of his palms, and leans forward to pull the hardening weight of Ja’far’s cock past his lips and in against the work of his tongue.

Ja’far does make a sound, then, a sharp intake of breath that sticks in the back of his throat, and couples it with lifting his other hand to brace against Sinbad’s head with none of the hesitation he showed with the first contact. Sinbad doesn’t need the encouragement of sound or touch: he has Ja’far in his mouth, the taste and heat of him a familiar shadow against his tongue, and he’s shutting his eyes to draw his attention closer to the friction against his lips, and the weight on his tongue, and the tension in the hips braced tight between his hands. Sinbad can feel Ja’far hardening inside his mouth, swelling hotter with the immediate persuasion that comes of Sinbad’s lips against him, but Sinbad urges for more anyway, slicking his tongue up against the head of Ja’far’s cock and tightening his lips to suck pressure over the shaft until Ja’far’s fingers are dragging against his scalp and Ja’far’s breathing has gone as heated as his cock in Sinbad’s mouth.

Ja’far is tilting forward, Sinbad can feel the shift in his certain balance in the greater weight pressing to the support of Sinbad’s hands, but he just goes on pushing back, bringing the strength of his arms to bear in keeping Ja’far on his feet while he works his mouth over the other’s length. He draws back fractionally, just enough to pull another gasp into Ja’far’s chest, and then returns again to retrieve the full heat of Ja’far’s arousal into the grip of his mouth. It’s hard to pull away, to retreat even for the purposes of drawing that startled whimper from Ja’far’s throat, so Sinbad indulges himself, pulling Ja’far in close against him so he can keep his mouth pressing tight around the very base of Ja’far’s cock as he effects pleasure with the slide of his tongue and the work of his throat. He doesn’t feel the ache at his knees, doesn’t notice the rasp of his breathing, barely acknowledges the drumbeat pulse of his own arousal surging up his spine in echo of Ja’far’s own; for a long span of time, there is just Ja’far, and Ja’far’s pleasure, and Sinbad the instrument of both.

Sinbad can feel when Ja’far approaches the edge. Ja’far restrains himself from many signs in this, exerts some part of that iron-fisted self-control he learned in the bloody training of his youth; but Sinbad has known Ja’far a long time, and some things he thinks he will never forget, no matter how much time has passed. He can feel the tension building beneath the tips of his fingers braced at Ja’far’s hips, as Ja’far fights with the urge to buck forward and give away the intensity of impatience that Sinbad’s mouth is coaxing from him; at his hair Ja’far’s hands are starting to tremble on the precipice of seizing tight to drag against Sinbad’s head and pull the other to where Ja’far wants him. It’s in the heat of his cock, full and taut against the friction of Sinbad’s lips sliding over him; it’s under the sound of his breathing, as Ja’far tips his head back in an instinctive effort to soften the rasping tension that is building in his chest with each drag of Sinbad’s tongue and each movement of Sinbad’s throat. Sinbad listens, and feels, and tastes; and he continues, pushing past the gentle of persuasion and into the intensity of a demand, insisting on surrender even as he kneels at the floor like a supplicant. Ja’far’s back arches, his fingers tighten, his inhale catches, and when he breaks it’s with his voice straining bright and high, with “_Sin_” a wail at his lips as he gives up his orgasm to the drag of Sinbad’s tongue. Sinbad tightens his lips to suck hard against Ja’far’s length, to pull the full force of the other’s pleasure into his mouth and over his tongue, and Ja’far curves in over him, his shoulders dipping forward until the hands fisting into Sinbad’s hair are clutching for support instead of demanding more.

Sinbad holds Ja’far upright, sustaining his grip and the force of his mouth until Ja’far is shaking through the whole of his body, until his hand has dropped to clutch at Sinbad’s shoulder with a grip gone white-knuckled with the strength behind it. It’s only when Ja’far is gasping into the open-throated, helpless breaths of surrender that Sinbad relinquishes the friction of his mouth, and even then he only draws the other’s clothes back into place around his hips before he pulls to urge Ja’far’s shaking knees to fold to the floor before him. Ja’far gives up his position without a fight, although he leans hard into Sinbad’s shoulder to save himself from outright collapse, and then they’re both kneeling on the floor of Ja’far’s room, Ja’far flushed and trembling with heat and Sinbad heavy-lidded with the insistent pulse of his own arousal.

They gaze at each other for a moment, just as they are. On their knees the difference in height is much diminished; if Ja’far were to rock upright instead of sitting back over his heels he would have the advantage still, if he cared to take it. But he doesn’t move, and neither does Sinbad: they just look at each other as Sinbad’s lips ache with the heat of Ja’far’s body and Ja’far’s eyes trace along Sinbad’s face like he’s revisiting the shape of it anew. They hesitate, briefly aligned one with the other; then Sinbad dips his lashes, and ducks his head into surrender to Ja’far’s attention. Ja’far catches a breath, sharp and sudden enough for Sinbad to clearly hear in the quiet; and then his hand still tangled in Sinbad’s hair loosens, his fingers slide down to cradle the back of the other’s head, and Sinbad rocks forward to let Ja’far pull his head in against the freckled pale of the other’s shoulder.

Sinbad doesn’t reach down, doesn’t move to push aside the restriction of the clothes that seem to be trapping the heat of his skin impossibly close to his body. He keeps his hands at his sides, lets his arms hang heavy and his hands lie open as an offering. When there is a touch at his clothes it is Ja’far’s hand pulling at the fabric, dextrous fingers making quick work of the layers between them to find the heat of Sinbad’s bare skin, and when Ja’far’s touch finds the heat of his cock Sinbad shuts his eyes and groans in the deepest point of his chest. There is a relief to the contact, to the familiar grace of Ja’far’s hand reaching for him, and as the other’s fingers curl to grip tight against his cock Sinbad lifts a hand to skim against Ja’far’s waist. The contact is delicate, a means to ground himself instead of an urging force, and Ja’far doesn’t pull away from it any more than he eases his hold on Sinbad’s cock. His hand fixes at the back of Sinbad’s head, his palm pressing hard to cradle the other in against him, and when he strokes up Sinbad shudders with a relief so bone-deep it is almost orgasmic all in itself.

They don’t speak. Ja’far has regained his composure -- there is no longer the faintest trace of tremor in his bracing hold at Sinbad’s head or in the grip stroking smooth over Sinbad’s cock -- and Sinbad has no words for the satisfaction of this, of being held steady in the familiar strength of Ja’far’s hold as pleasure rushes out into him with each unhesitating pull of the grip around him. His breath draws deep, rasping over the heat in his chest with each inhale he takes, and as his shoulders flex into the strain of anticipation Sinbad lifts his other hand from his side to reach up and curl against the back of Ja’far’s neck. Ja’far’s hand at the back of his head tightens, his fingers tense to brace hard against the weight of Sinbad’s hair, and when his hand pulls up Sinbad groans with the force of it, giving up the sound of his voice to the persuasion of Ja’far’s hold without hesitation. His shoulders curve in, his body tips to press him into the support of Ja’far kneeling before him, and as Ja’far’s hand works Sinbad feels the tension of pleasure rising in him, climbing his spine and tensing anticipation against the span of his chest. His fingers tighten against the back of Ja’far’s neck, he turns his head to gasp at Ja’far’s shoulder, and when Ja’far’s hand tightens around him Sinbad rocks forward, letting the wave of pleasure sweep him against the support of Ja’far in front of him. His cock twitches in Ja’far’s hold, pulsing heat over the other’s fingers and along the angle of his wrist, and Ja’far holds Sinbad against his shoulder and keeps stroking, until Sinbad has spent even the breathless, shuddering force of aftershocks against the wall of that deceptively slender form before him.

Sinbad doesn’t lift his head when Ja’far lets him go. The shift of the other’s fingers against him quivers sensation down his spine and pulls the air from his lungs into a gusting exhale, but Ja’far’s hand is still steady at his head, and Sinbad is happy to sag forward into the support Ja’far offers him. For a long moment they stay like that, Sinbad’s head bowed under Ja’far’s hold and the sound of their breathing coming rough on shared heat. Then Sinbad loosens the press of his fingers at Ja’far’s neck, softening his grip only so he can lift his arm higher and catch Ja’far’s shoulders in the crook of his arm instead of just the grip of his hand.

“Ja’far,” Sinbad says, speaking to the sharp of pale collarbone instead of lifting his head to look into the dark attention of Ja’far’s eyes on him. “I missed you.”

It’s an admission, a capitulation to weakness that Sinbad would never think to show to anyone else, would hardly offer even to Ja’far in any other circumstance. But he is trembling with relief, and his throat is tight on the heat of pleasure that feels like tears at the back of his eyes, and the feel of Ja’far against him is too much for him to stay silent. Ja’far tenses under his hold, his shoulders flexing for a moment on unvoiced surprise, but then his hand in Sinbad’s hair tightens, and after a moment he lifts his other arm to wrap around Sinbad’s shoulders to bind the other in the force of an embrace.

“You better have,” Ja’far says, and Sinbad doesn’t lift his head to see the tears he can hear on the catch of Ja’far’s voice, however haughty he strives to make it. His arm tightens around Sinbad’s shoulders. The force is too tight for comfort, with the way they’re pressing together. Sinbad doesn’t tell him to let go. “You’re not going without me next time, Sin-sama.”

It’s supposed to sound like a demand, Sinbad knows. The crack in Ja’far’s voice that shatters the words into desperation is accidental more than intentional, as much a giveaway as the catch of a hiccuping breath that ruffles against Sinbad’s hair. Sinbad keeps his face down, keeps himself pressing close to Ja’far’s shoulder instead of looking up to see the other’s face, and when he nods he does so against the line of the other’s shoulder so Ja’far can feel it as much as see it.

“Yeah,” Sinbad says, and lifts his hand from Ja’far’s hip to wrap around the other’s waist instead. “I know.”

He doesn’t know if it’s true. Sinbad has made hard choices in the past; he knows he will again, as surely as he’s certain Ja’far knows the same. But he knows he wants it to be true, wants to obey the plea that Ja’far wants to frame as an order, and after everything, Sinbad thinks they both deserve some indulgence.


End file.
